Song to the Roses

     "Capture a smile and then that's all

You won't know her so it's ok

Funny how things change" 

— Mazzy Star, Rose Blood from the album, "Among My Swan" (1996)

Monet, Claude. The House among the Roses. 1925. Giverny, France

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 This specific piece of writing is crucial to me, as it is the required essay that has followed my admittance to a higher education. 

 8/25/24

    To be christened with a conjoined name in the middle, Rose, composes the assumption of unoriginality and the trials of familial tribulations. I am a progeny of dexterous women, who have also braced the name of Rose, while simultaneously being a bashful pariah amongst my peers. 

     Socially, to bear the middle name of Rose is to be characterless; numerous individuals have and will continue to conform and condemn your name until you feel your individuality slip away. Repetitive occasions have lectured me until this lesson was abusively comprehended. A continuous length of a depressive episode, brought on by the mistreatment of your body and disrespect of your character, is not original. You are a Rose. To confide in the comforts of a young librarian, who has pushed you to continue your love for writing, is not original. You are a Rose. And yet, the blossoming of such an enamoring flower can produce an unintentional barrier of thorns to protect one's solitude. 

     Unfortunately, to fondle the web of my thorns has created more conflict and debilitated my own protection. For when you prick your finger against my thorns, anger stirs and understanding diminishes. Maybe the reason I shuttered so many lonesome nights during my freshman year, was because my most beloved friends were being stung in the grasps of my name. Maybe, the reason I wrestled with deteriorating mental health was because my thorns lashed out on those who hold the most love for me. To have thorns is to be seen as unforgiving and coarse, for a Rose can be harsh when not handled with care. But when treasured by the dearest of kinsfolk, a Rose can flourish into its highest form of individuality; a Rose is precious and beloved. 

     Within the solidarity of my family, a Rose means an adept character who knows no boundaries of exceeding achievements. Though we do not sow the soil of our homes beneath our feet, a Rose adapts to the growing pains of life and embarks on a path of humility and pride. I’d like to think I align with the women before me; they are the ones who share the same middle name as I. The compelling similarity of someone who dares to defy the limitations of society, is inviting the desire to be transformed. When starting as a sprout, the nutritious love of my mother influenced me to unapologetically establish my name and life as I wanted to be. I feel myself grow. When I began to advance into a young adult, the bright horizon of my future endeavored my innermost aspirations to create the amalgamation of my thoughts into a self-published blog; I want the world to hear what I have to say. Though my petals may grow with imperfections (my arms’ appearance will be lashed with unforgiving scars), the title of a Rose conjures a sense of past and present in unison; I hope to blossom into my most beautiful form. 

     I want to feel my roots of being a Rose, ground themselves fully in the Earth of knowledge and gratuitous love. And though I will emit the sweetness of nights cradled in my mother’s arms, I carry the bittersweet of the mistreatment of my body, around my thorns. While it may be unclear on how each Rose compares differently to the other, my story remains un-mirrored beyond the resemblance of any other flower. To be a Rose is precious and beloved; it is the prideful weight of womanhood, in a world full of pesticides that aim to mutilate you as you blossom to your fullest potential. I am S— Rose Q—; I am a seedling who is transforming into mellowed fruition.